Step By Step
by Bra-Two
Summary: M/M- Miles Morale goes out as often as he can to try and get used to his new powers, patrolling the city for crime like his hero, Peter Parker. One night patrol leads him to the bar Flash Thompson happens to frequent.
1. Flash: The Loser

**AN**: This was written for my flatmate. I know Miles hasn't gotten much attention because he's new, but I hope this story will get people interested in his character. I'm amazed he's not an option for a character on this site, so this is just listed under "Flash T"

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

Flash hated winter. Hated the way the snow stuck to his wheelchair, making it almost impossible to move forward. That's what life felt like all the time. He didn't need the physical sensation to get that. Life fucked you over. It was always difficult to push through all the shit.

He hated the preparation needed just to go fucking outside. He wasn't entirely used to his missing limbs yet, but he felt like he was getting there. Usually he just pulled on his old clothes, the long trails of empty fabric past his knees were easily tucked up underneath him. Sitting on them meant he didn't have to worry about them. That was fine in the summer, and even in the fall when temperatures started to drop. But in winter, he had to make the effort to twist the ends of his jeans up. He didn't want snow to get in against his joints. He knew the doctors said they were healed, but they were constantly tender. Parts of his body were exposed that should never have been exposed. If he pressed down he could feel the bone of his thigh sticking out, wondering where the rest of his leg had gone. He wondered that too sometimes.

The nightmares about the accident were so vivid that sometimes he felt like he was just waking up into another dream world- one where God was laughing at him; torturing him just to make people stare. Poor Flash Thompson. He'd never be a jock again. He'd never stand again. He struggled to piss on his own.

He had prosthetics, but he didn't like wearing them. They put pressure on his bones and rubbed his muscles like sandpaper. Back in the early days, when he'd tried to become normal again, he'd often find his wounds reopening whenever he put the false legs on. Eventually he gave up trying to be normal. Even if he wore them, people still stared at him- stared at the gate in his walk, the stiffness of legs that everybody knew weren't his. He'd rather have them stare at him for what he was, rather than his pathetic attempts at trying to be like them.

They rested in his wardrobe now. He kept them only a memory of his failure. One he'd get to glance at every time he opened the doors to get changed. It added to his self-hate each time he shut the door as well, because the doors of his wardrobe were mirrors. He got a good glance as his pathetic body as he turned away from the one thing that might have helped him feel a little better about himself.

Since he had locked them away he had only pulled them free once. His thigh muscles had wasted away from lack of use, so the prosthetics no longer fitted. He'd gritted his teeth and simply pulled the straps tighter. The legs had jutted out like a doll's- colourless, smooth plastic. He had taken a deep breath and allowed himself a stupid thought of hope before pushing up off the armrests of the wheelchair. For a second he was up. He was tall again. Lightheaded with the feeling he had almost smiled. Then the pain had shot up his bones, the balance was tilted and he went down.

Lying on the floor wasn't unusual. Before he'd joined the army he'd often wake up on the floor, in pools of his own vomit, in the bathroom, in alleyways, in stranger's beds… That part of his life was supposed to be over. The army was supposed to change him- make him different to how his father had been. It had conditioned his mind. But he guessed the Thompson genes won out in the end. What was a Thompson without a beer in their hand? Nothing, that's what.

Flash had always been a nothing. His father had drilled that into him early on. In a way, he was glad his father had been truthful with him. Maybe Harrison had some sort of sixth sense- powered by drunken rage- that made him see how useless his son was going to become? Better to beat out the hope in him so that he doesn't make a fool of himself by trying.

Flash had panted against the floor. Maybe he'd been trying to hold back tears. Maybe he just didn't want to move. Betty had heard the noise and came upstairs, banging on the door for him to let her in. Maybe he snapped something back at her, but when he'd pushed the prosthetics back into the wardrobe and gone downstairs, there was a note on the table from her saying she wouldn't be back.

She had come back. And left again. Several times. Flash couldn't even hold onto a girlfriend. And when he did have her, he didn't want to have sex with her. Betty claimed his legs didn't bother her, but she always wanted to be underneath him, always wanted him to thrust down inside her knowing it put pressure on his thighs. She wanted Flash to be a man, and he couldn't be that. Flash had long since figured out that she only wanted him to be over her, so she could pretend his legs were there. On top of him, she'd always liked to brush the soles of her feet against the back of his knees.

It was easier just to ignore her advances. That was the most common reason for the fights, and for her leaving. The only reason she came back was because she felt obligated now. If you lend your toy to a friend and it comes back broken, do you throw the toy away? Or do you hold onto it for a while and try to pretend it's not broken?

She probably felt pressured by the neighbourhood; the people who judged her for leaving him. Leaving poor Flash alone when he's got no legs.

Life was better without Betty around anyway. No one to accuse him about drinking, even if he was starting to drink more and more now. Why not? If everyone thought he was drinking again, why not give them the evidence they're looking for. Someone needed to be the bottom of the ladder, to make everyone else feel better about themselves. Flash didn't mind being that person anymore.

That was where he was heading to: a bar. There was one not too far from his apartment, but still far enough away from people he knew. The bartender wouldn't judge him when he asked for a drink.

He could easily get there within an hour on his wheelchair. No need to drag himself on the bus and embarrass himself even further. Those disability spaces were always full of prams and screaming babies anyway. They deserved it more than Flash did.

No. He would use the streets to get to his destination. He'd heard vans out earlier that morning, showering the icy paths with grit, so hopefully it wouldn't be too bad. He didn't mind about on the way to the bar, but he didn't plan on coming home entirely sober. And as bad as he felt… he didn't really want to die over-tuned on his wheelchair in the snow, freezing to death.

He guessed he wanted to go back and die in action. Go back and tell the doctors that they weren't going to take his legs, even if it did kill him. Dying for your country was the way to go. He'd have died a hero.

Laughing at himself in the mirror, Flash shook his head and leant back, arching his hips off the edge of the bed and dragging his jeans up with a small grunt. Getting dressed had been a nightmare in the beginning, but now it was just a minor chore. The end of his thighs had already been covered by socks, pulled tight against his skin to keep the chill out. He sat back down and leant over himself, twisting his jeans shut and clipping them into place. He had often considered cutting his jeans short, getting Betty to sew them in on themselves, but the image he conjured up in his head reminded him of baby-grows . He stuck with the twisting and pinning technique…

Reaching over, he dragged his wheelchair just close enough to shift his body into it. The blanket underneath his ass provided some padding, since it hurt to be sitting on your ass the whole day, but it was only a minor luxury he allowed himself. Wheeling himself over to the wardrobe, he took a brief glance at his reflection, running his fingers through his blonde hair and over his tired eyes. He let them trace down his chest. Although his legs had begun to waste, he'd bought a set of weights to train with at home, to keep his upper body strong enough to shift his useless body around. He wasn't brave enough to go to a public gym and this way was cheaper anyway.

Flash liked to make excuses for himself. Brave enough to go to war, but not brave enough to be surrounded by men with bodies like the one he used to have. The envy in his stomach had made him physically sick before just thinking about it.

Flash had changed a lot since high school; since the war.

Shaking his head, he dragged his shirt on and then his coat, heading towards the door. A pat down of his pockets confirmed he had his wallet and his keys; he left his phone to avoid Betty if she called. Then he was on his way, hoping that tonight wouldn't be a waste of time.

He had always been involved with woman. He had been attractive, athletic and popular as a teenager- three key components that let him breeze through high-school with a relative ease. A charming smile got you a long way back then. Girls had been all over him. Even though he had only settled enough to acquire a few girlfriends, his night-time conquests had been up on the leader board. He had started to run out of girls to seduce. He and some of the other guys from the football team had travelled around the city together, frequenting bars with their fake IDs and seducing women with rings already on their fingers.

Older now, he still had his good looks (his father's genes hadn't failed him there) but now the women he frequented were more the type that demanded money- the type that didn't stare at his legs. They probably serviced a lot of men from the war- the ones too traumatised to be satisfied with their normal, pretty wives anymore.

The new Flash didn't care about who he went home with at night anymore. If Betty was gone, then as long as someone was willing to come home with him, he was fine. He wasn't judgmental like he used to be- back when sex was used to impress everyone around him. Now sex was used just as a means to maybe forget (just for a second) that any of this shit had happened to him. The second his orgasm hit, his mind was wiped and he could pretend he was anyone.

Then reality hit hard when he fished money out of his wallet, or watched the girl start to redress, trusting them not to steal from the poor cripple as they left his home. Only a couple of the girls stayed the night, resting into his chest like they might belong. Betty slept with her back to him all the time, wanting him to hold around, to protect her. Flash found it more comfortable to lie on his back, staring up the ceiling. Betty complained about that as well.

It wasn't Betty's fault though. If anything, Flash wanted her to move on, find someone to marry who could love her properly. They weren't in a relationship anymore; it was a twisted convenience of guilt that kept them coming back together.

Flash had definitely changed. He'd started sleeping with men. Not frequently, but back when he was a teenager he would have died before lingering on emotions about other boys. He would have beaten up anyone for so much as suggesting he'd ever do anything with another man. He never admitted the truth to Betty. He didn't need her prattling on about AIDS and God. Flash was aware of the risks and was always prepared. He didn't fuck anyone, man or woman, without a condom.

It wasn't until he'd gotten back from the war that he'd experimented. It was around the time he'd started drinking, but he hadn't been drunk when it had happened. Maybe if he'd been drunk it wouldn't have hurt as much as it had. Maybe he wouldn't have enjoyed it if it hadn't hurt... There had been something intimate about letting someone tear him open like that. It felt like fighting- something he was used to.

It had been almost a year since his last encounter with a man. Flash always went out to bars looking for girls. He was attracted to girls- their bodies, their faces. What he wanted from a man wasn't simple to describe. He couldn't even fathom an explanation himself. The few times he had been with another man, he'd woken up feeling like the world's largest disappointment. Like his father had been watching him the whole time from the corner of the room, wondering how he possibly could manage to fuck up his life even more.

He hadn't been with a man since he'd lost his legs. He'd barely been able to look at them without jealousy burning through him.

He reached the bar in under an hour. That was good, even with the snow filling up over the ground. He was getting stronger- even without wearing the suit. The door to bar was around the corner, just off the street down a side alley. The neon sign hanging above the entrance was modest in comparison to the garish crap that littered the buildings of the main street.

There was no ramp, but Flash didn't have a problem manoeuvring up the singular step. Not when a drink was offered on the other side of it.

The bar smelt like ale and smoke. The warmth wasn't only just on his face, but felt like it went through his whole body. He rolled over to the bar; ignoring the stares he got along the way. He supposed it was only natural to stare. When he was younger he would done more than just stare. He would've cracked jokes at anybody who was different, just to remind them that he was better than they were. Well, funny that… He didn't feel much better than them now. He guessed that was karma.

The bar wasn't low enough for disabled people, but it almost made Flash feel better. This bar wasn't making an effort to pity him. He looked up at the bartender, "Usual, please."

The man nodded and left Flash to brush the snow from his blonde hair and shoulders. Flash made a quick check of the bindings around his thighs as he waited, retwisting his jeans back into place and shifting out of his coat. The letters that spelt out 'ARMY' across his chest weren't boastful. They were convenient. He got dressed based on what was easy and what was nearby.

He took his beer when it was offered, handing over a few dollars in exchange. The first sip soothed his nerves more than anything the world ever could. He knew there was something wrong with him when alcohol had become the answer to everything, but the world became suddenly very perfect when he drank. For a moment all that mattered was him and that drink.

It was only when he was about halfway through it that he took the time to check out the other people in the bar with him; like picking out a victim. Would someone be going home with him tonight? It wasn't that late yet, but there were a few dedicated veterans to the cause- people Flash recognised from Alcoholics Anonymous. They offered him a nod of understanding, their own drinks clutched tightly. Flash knew that feeling- that someone might notice you have a problem and try to fix you, take the drink from you forcefully.

A couple of underage girls were sipping at drinks they had probably flirted their way into getting; small groups of students were gathered around in the booths. Some sort of cheesy jazz song was playing- a pretty, blonde girl playing with the buttons on the jukebox. Flash took a sip of his drink before heading over to her. He placed his drink on the nearest ledge.

"I hope you're planning on changing the song," he offered her a smile. His mother always complimented his smile. Said it was the smile that his father used on her all the time. A smile that trapped women.

The girl did what most of them did, turning around to down-talk whatever asshole had decided to interrupt her, pausing when was met by empty space before looking down. She stared for a moment.

He flashed her another smile, "Hey there, gorgeous."

She blushed. God bless her. "Oh sorry. I didn't see-" _'you were disabled' _came off in her body language. Flash could try and work with that. It was almost cute, but he decided to give her a break.

"I'm Flash," he introduced himself, holding out his hand towards her.

The girl's politeness won out and she reached out to shake his hand. "Hi," she said, tucking some of her hair back behind her ears. They were a little big. "I'm Amanda." She had a heart shaped necklace hanging down across her chest, drawing his eye down.

Flash wondered if that was her real name. She seemed like a nice girl- maybe he should put his insecurities away for the evening and give her the benefit of the doubt. "A pretty name for a pretty face," he charmed.

Amanda gave a small laugh, but didn't seem to be going anywhere in this conversation. Flash pushed a little harder. One more chance; if this didn't work, she wasn't interested. It wasn't unusual for him to get rejected several times. Further into the evening people would get drunker. Their standards would drop…

"Do you need a dollar for the jukebox?" he asked.

Amanda blinked and then opened her mouth. It was the sign of a mouth ready to make an excuse and Flash had enough dignity to put his hand up, stopping her before she could speak. "It's alright," he said. "I get it. You must already have a boyfriend who's willing to pay. Excuse me." He picked up his beer and rolled back to the bar, leaving the girl alone.

He didn't know if she had a boyfriend, but using that excuse always got him out of awkward flirting with girls that had no desire to sit on a cripple's lap. Back at the bar his drink disappeared and another replaced it. Another replaced that, and then another replaced that. By that point the bar had darkened and the music had changed. Some kid had picked some kind of chart song on the jukebox and those underage girls were up dancing in the middle of the pub. Amanda and a bunch of others had joined in.

Flash felt his legs ache to dance where there was supposedly nothing to feel. He kept ordering drinks and the more he drank, the more he watched her. Amanda became more beautiful as the night went on, and he wondered if he might have a second go at flirting with her. She'd had a few more drinks by now. Perhaps he could be the person she regretted going home with that night.

It was something to aspire to.

Just when he was about to head over to chat with her again, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Another hand moved behind him and grabbed the handle of his wheelchair, sliding him around to face the perpetrator.

"Hey, hands of the steel," Flash slurred, reaching to push the hands away from him. "Fucking creep. Can't you see I'm DISABLED?" He always went on like this when he got drunk. Everything he was quiet about during the day just burst forth into every argument.

Maybe it was only when he was drunk that he could actually talk about being disabled. He could never avoid_ being_ crippled, but talking about it was clearly a different manner.

"I'm the creep?" the guy laughed back. He was a half-blurred figured of some tall preppy jock type. The type Flash had been before his accident. "You've been staring at my girlfriend for almost an hour, you fucking perv. You're the creep here."

The boy continued, "I've had a talk around the bar and we all want you out." The douchebag moved around and started pushing Flash towards the exit. The snow had picked up and the wind was a sudden slap to the face.

The boy tilted Flash's wheelchair up, emptying him out of it like a dustpan into the trash. With his motor functions ruined by the alcohol, Flash tumbled out easily. He hit the ground chest first, snow in his mouth, trapped in the stubble around his jaw. Turning himself over onto his back he glared up towards the entrance of the bar. "Fucking prick!" he snapped. "You want me to call the police?"

The boy laughed, throwing the wheelchair out to the side, making sure it was out of Flash's reach. "You've pissed yourself," he informed, turning back into the bar and Flash heard him cheer himself for his victory.

Flash wanted nothing more than to be inside his suit right now- to charge back inside and rip that kid's legs off. Just so he felt what it was like to be top dog, and have it literally ripped out from underneath him.

But Flash had other things to deal with. He _had_pissed himself. Sometimes it happened when he was drunk. Losing his legs hadn't messed with his bladder at all but every man lost control when they drank too much. It was totally normal. He could just pull the blanket from his wheelchair around his lap on his way home. His ass could deal with the hard seat for one journey.

Coughing, Flash dragged himself up, ignoring the warm wetness around his crotch. It was almost pleasant in the cold air of the evening. His watch told him it was 11pm as he shifted over to grab his wheelchair, getting it back in the upright position clumsily. He'd gotten drunk far too quickly this evening. He didn't even want to call a prostitute. He just wanted to go home and curl up in his bed.

Maybe he could sleep here. He probably wouldn't bother anyone. He pushed his face down into the seat of the chair, letting out a tight sigh, shoulders shuddering from a sudden emotion that caught him off-guard.

What had fucking happened to his life that allowed him to be tossed out of a bar like garbage? He was in a fucking wheelchair. For all he tried to ignore people's pity, it hit home tonight how it was the only source of human contact he really had. If people didn't pity him, where the hell would he be?

Betty wouldn't linger around, for sure. Hell, his own mother would probably rather sit at his father's bedside than help him out. What would stop people from throwing him out of everywhere- just for being the eyesore of humanity, staring at girls he'd never had- because they wanted men who could walk. They probably assumed his dick wouldn't work.

Flash gritted his teeth and slammed his fist into the wheelchair, sending it back into the wall of the alley. The blonde man slumped on his side, resting down against the ground, overtaken by the sudden urge to sleep. A voice knocked him out of it though, along with a hand shaking his shoulder.

"Uh… Hey mister… are you alright?"

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><p>Miles didn't make it a habit of trying to wake large, angry looking drunks… But this guy looked in pretty bad shape. For one, he was missing his lower legs. Miles couldn't just leave him lying out in the snow like that. Peter Parker would've been ashamed if he had.<p>

So he shook the man's shoulder a little harder, ready to jump back in case the man really was an angry drunk. He smelt kind of bad- like booze and piss. As the man turned over onto his back with a groan, Miles saw where the smell was coming from. "Oh, jeeze," he mumbled, looking around before spotting the blanket. He threw it over the man to give him some dignity, and to help keep him warm. "Are you awake?" he asked, squatting down and leaning over to peer at the man through his mask.  
>He seemed sort of familiar but Miles couldn't think where from, until the man spoke. "Peter?" was the grunt that came, blue, blood-shot eyes flickering open to look around.<p>

Oh. That was where Miles knew the other from. What was his name again? Something strange. Flare? Flannel? Flash? It was Flash, wasn't it? Miles remembered because he had thought that the other's bright blonde hair had matched that name- like a flashlight. He'd been at Peter Parker's funeral.

He had certainly been in a much better state back then though. Miles grabbed Flash's arm, tugging the other up into a sitting position against the wall.

"I'm not Peter-" Miles explained, "Are you alright? You didn't fall or anything, did you?" He tried to speak clear and loudly, since he figured drunk people didn't listen much. He peered into Flash's eyes, trying to make sure that the other was focused on him. Apart from a few grunts every now and then, Flash seemed oblivious to the world.

He was pretty drunk. His breath stunk even worse than his clothes did.

"I'm going to try and get you into your chair, okay?" Miles would assume that the grunt in response was an 'alright then'. He slipped his small arm behind Flash's back and carefully pulled the man off the floor.

Flash was heavy but Miles had the extra strength to counteract it. The only difficult thing was compensating for Flash's unique centre of gravity. Miles didn't want to drop the other. He looked like he'd been dropped enough already.

With the older man grumbling into his ear (much of which he couldn't understand, but he got the words 'Peter' and 'asshole') Miles managed to shift Flash into the chair, keeping the blanket over his lap to save him his dignity. Miles half expected there to be a seatbelt to keep the other in but then blushed under his mask and scolded himself for thinking such a thing. Flash wasn't a baby.

But he hoped the other could stay in the seat. Sometimes when Miles saw people get drunk on TV they went all floppy and slipped off things. "You okay?" he asked then bit his lip. "I think I asked that already. I'm sorry I just- want you to be okay. Uh- where do you live?"

Flash grunted and lifted his hand, gesturing to the main street. "There. Shut up kid. You're giving me a headache," he slurred.

Miles winced and supposed that he was being sort of annoying… but he doubted Flash liked sleeping on the ground. So he was going to take the other home. He pushed the chair towards the street. He didn't think it would be wise to try and use web-travel or anything.

"Sorry," he mumbled, looking around to check the street. It was empty anyway; people were at home or inside bars. With a small breath he pushed Flash forward, wondering what he was getting himself into.

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> My OTP is Venom/Spiderman. The fact that Peter Parker died in the ultimate universe gave me a new character to play around with. With Miles as the new Spiderman, the only other decision was to cast someone as Venom. Eddie was out of the question, and me and my flatmate had recently read the Venom issue with Flash donning the symbiote for the army, so obviously it seemed like an amazing idea to pair the two together.

Miles is only 13 in the comics, so I'm keeping his age that for this story, but I'm not sure how old Flash is. If he was the same age as Peter when he died in the ultimate universe that would only make him around 18. In that case he wouldn't have been to the army and he wouldn't have lost his legs and this story would make no sense. Because of that I suggest Flash is around 27/28.


	2. Miles: The Hero in Training

**AN: **Thanks for the lovely reviews :) Hopefully this won't disappoint.**  
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><p><strong>Chapter Two<br>Miles: The Hero in Training**

"Are you sure this is your house?" Miles made a worried noise. He wasn't sure if he should really trust Flash at this moment in time. The other had been mumbling gibberish the whole journey back- it seemed to consist of Flash complaining about a lot of stuff. A lot of it Miles was quite sure hadn't even been English. Maybe Flash could speak German or something? Blonde was a German thing… wasn't it? Or was that Swedish?

Wow. Miles was going off topic now. He really needed to learn to focus better. The teacher's at school were always telling him that; that he was bright and could go places if he only applied himself. Miles wonders how they would all react if he told them he was the new Spiderman. If he told them he'd spoken face to face with Nick Fury?

The new suit he'd been given fitted perfectly. He felt a lot better having his own suit. He was starting to become his own hero; not just a copy of Peter Parker. Not that Miles would have minded being a copy. Peter was his hero. He honestly couldn't think of a better thing to do with his life than follow in the other's footsteps. He didn't ever want to seem insensitive. Really, it was all Ganke's fault!

Miles looked down at the back of Flash's head, wondering if the man had passed out. He shifted around to half crouch in front of the wheelchair, elbows on his thighs as he waited. Flash was breathing heavily, his chin tucked down against his chest. It made this little double chin and Miles smiled, leaning forward a bit.

"You're not that scary, are you?"

Flash opened heavy eyelids and glared across at him.

Miles leant back quickly, "Okay. Maybe you are." He stood for a moment and then stepped to the side, pointed up to the small house, "Is this where you live?"

"Yeah," Flash slurred and then laughed. "This is the place. My palace. My Empirrre," the blonde slurred.

Again, Miles wasn't sure whether to believe him, but it was all he had to go on. He moved behind the wheelchair and pushed the man up towards the front door. It was a little bit of a hill but at least there weren't any steps to try and negotiate the chair over. Miles was certainly stronger than before but he hadn't ever practise manoeuvres like that. He didn't want to end up throwing Flash to the ground by mistake.

"Where are you keys?" Miles asked, reaching over the other's head to try the door handle. Flash obviously hadn't been drunk that morning when leaving the house. It was locked pretty tight. Maybe Miles could break it open? But then how would he explain the broken door to the other in the morning?

A note? And what if the open door let burglars in or something?

Flash shifted again with a grunt, "Pocket, you jackass."

Miles made a noise. "Can you get them out for me then?"

Flash grunted again, but this time Miles couldn't make out the words. He stood for a moment by the wheelchair, wincing and scrunching up his face a little bit. He didn't really want to shove his hand down inside the pocket of the other man. What if Flash regained his senses halfway through and started drunkenly yelling about getting… molested or something!

Miles was unlucky enough that if that did happen, there would also be someone with a camera hiding in the bushes to snap his picture. The headline the next morning would read 'Spiderman: Hero or Pervert?'

Miles blushed under his suit, grumbling at his situation. He should've stayed inside tonight. Besides this incident with Flash, his night patrol had been surprisingly dull. Nobody wanted to commit crimes in the snow, it seemed. Miles could understand that. His costume was a little on the thin side and the chill was starting to go right through him.

Talking about cameras, maybe Miles should think about getting Ganke to follow him around the city- snapping pictures of him being heroic. He didn't want to seem like a show off, but it would definitely help him improve his stances and such. He could only get so far by copying pictures of Peter Parker in his bedroom. And gosh, hadn't that been embarrassing when he'd been caught by his mother?

Ganke probably needed to get outside a bit more anyway. Miles knew how to work a computer but he had never used one to the extent his friend had. The chubbier boy sometimes sat for hours, clicking buttons and grumbling about people on the internet- people who were across the other side of the country. Or further.

Miles, although not an avid user of technology, was always amazed by that- the way you could talk to someone so far away, and become friends without ever meeting face to face. Ganke often avidly talked about people he knew online; gaming groups and 'guilds' that were in constant hate wars; people in different time zones that kept Ganke up until 4am whilst Miles and Jude tried to block out the light from the computer and actually get some sleep.

The interesting thing was that Ganke seemed to have no problem waking up early the next morning. Maybe he ran off some kind of battery power that he harvested from the computer whilst he was on it?

A sudden snow-mixed breeze of wind up the garden path reminded Miles that they'd been standing in Flash's front garden for the better part of ten minutes. Flash was snoring now and Miles was half-certain he could slap the other and get no response.

He turned to take a quick look around the area, just to make sure _**absolutely**_ nobody would see him do what he was about to do. The street was empty, the snow flickering across the sky and streetlamps scattering each flake's shadow over the road. The place was silent.

"Thank goodness," Miles mumbled, rolling his neck and shoulders, stretching himself out to sort of… mentally prepare for the task. He licked his lips under the mask, looking over the snoring figure. Flash was unaware of any mental torture Miles was going through right now. If Miles squinted, he could swear he saw the other's drooling a bit.

The boy reached his hand forward, quickly patting down over the blanket to find out which side the keys were in. Luckily he found them first time. They were in the left, the pocket he was next to. Lucky again, Morales.

Time for step two. He took hold of Flash's shoulder and gently tilted the man to the other side of the wheelchair, leaning him over so his hip pushed up, allowing Miles to reach the pocket more easily.

For some reason he held his breath as he pushed his hand down inside the other's pocket. He wriggled around a bit, blushing harder at the embarrassment of doing something so personal to someone- not just because his hand was pushed up against this stranger's thigh.

He pushed down a little further when he finally felt the keys. Gosh, Flash's pockets seemed to go on forever for some reason. Miles curled his fingers down, gripping around the keys and pausing when the whole pocket suddenly became warm and wet at the bottom.

"Oh, jeeze, ew! That's your- I'm sorry!" Miles's face was burning hot underneath his mask. He pulled his hand quickly out of the pocket, shaking his fingers out, keys jangling in his grasp. "I didn't mean to- I forgot you'd-"

Flash stirred at the loud stream of nonsense pouring from the young boy. "I thought I told you to shut up," he slurred, shifting to sit back upright in the seat, tugging at the blanket until it was tucked up under his chin.

Miles couldn't think of anything to do besides nod, taking the advice and shutting up fairly quickly. The keys were only a little wet but Miles chanted the phrase 'It's just water, it's just water' over in his head to make it easier. Luckily there was only one key, so he didn't have to struggle trying to find the right one. He slipped it into the lock and wriggled it around until he heard the tell-tale click of entrance granted.

So Flash hadn't been lying. This really was the other's home.

He pushed the door open with his shoulder. It groaned in protest, a little stiff, but Miles didn't feel the strain at all. He didn't even think about his increase in strength anymore. In the beginning he'd had problems slamming doors and cupboards too hard. His mother had scolded him a lot for stuff like that, telling him to be careful. Now carefulness came naturally. Strength was manageable.

Miles quickly put the keys down onto the nearest table, rubbing his hands on his thigh muscles before turning back to get Flash's wheelchair. He pushed the blonde inside and shut the door, letting out a sigh of relief.

The sigh quickly turned to a yelp of distress when he looked around Flash's home.

It wasn't like Miles's own home at all, or like his school dorm. The house was large and fairly average from the outside, but inside the rooms seemed much, much bigger due to the fact that there was barely any furniture.

The couch looked pretty old and there was a coffee table facing an old looking TV- something that still had a VCR machine attached. Miles couldn't see any videos lying around though, but maybe they were hidden away?

What _**was**_ in generous supply was rubbish- most of it in the form of frosty green beer bottles.

The kitchen had the most bottles in it- piled high inside a small blue, plastic box with the three-curved recycle symbol stamped on the side. The bottles were gathered in a large bin bag, but Miles was pretty sure there was at least another bag of bottles just lying around the rest of the apartment. The smell of stale beer was pretty powerful.

Oh well, at least Flash was recycle-conscious… right?

Miles tried not to judge. Maybe those bottles had never ever been put to the recycling? The rest of the house wasn't exactly clean- things were littered all over the place. Maybe Flash couldn't move the box to the curb or anything, so it had all just built up over the months.

Some of the bottles had stuff growing inside them- black lumps of mould. There was no way Flash could consume such a large amount of alcohol in just a couple of weeks. This was months' worth of abuse.

Miles wasn't sure if that made it any better.

He decided to focus on just getting the man to bed. He left Flash sitting in the wheelchair for a moment, moving around the house to check for a bedroom. There was a set of stairs, but nothing to help Flash get up and down them. Miles could only assume the first floor of the house was now redundant and never lived in.

He found the bedroom just behind the staircase, hidden at the back of the house. The room only had a bed and a dresser in it- a half open wardrobe making up the other side. Miles took a self-conscious second to check himself out in the mirror. Maybe he was too skinny, but the suit looked great. He felt like he was one step closer to becoming a 'real' Spiderman- a hero of his own.

Blinking, Miles noticed that the wardrobe was half open. Amongst the clothes hanging up, there was something smooth and human-like in the back, resting against the wall. Curiosity made him lean closer, and shock forced him back suddenly when he realised it was a pair of legs.

He shut the wardrobe and tried to forget about it. That was maybe something to fret over for another day. He was sure Flash wasn't some kind of crazy killer, going around and stealing people's legs because his own were missing.

He returned to the front of the house quickly and gently made a path through the odd pieces of rubbish and bottles to let the wheelchair get through. Miles wasn't practised with a wheelchair (a fact he'd found out earlier in the evening as he tried to negotiate Flash up and down several curbs) but he managed to get the other to the bedroom without incident.

Flash grunted a stream of words as Miles transferred his large frame to the bed. Miles let out his own grunt at the awkward weight, sort of accidentally dumping Flash on the bed a little roughly.

Flash didn't seem to mind though. The large man shifted, his body stretching out. His legs acted as if they were still full length and Miles smiled at the thought of Flash imagining curling his toes up in delight. He couldn't resist staring at the missing legs as the man shifted-there was something strange about the whole situation and he had trouble tearing his eyes away. But he did in the end.

It was rude to stare.

"Are you alright, Flash?" Miles asked, leaning over the bed- but not too close to Flash's face. The smell of alcohol there was worse than it was in the apartment.

Flash's body shifted on the bed suddenly and Miles leant back as the other groaned, the noise catching in the other man's throat like the wind had been knocked out of him. Miles made a displeased noise. "You're not going to be sick, are you?"

It was the only thing left to go wrong.

But the other man just turned over a bit and curled his thighs up towards his body; eyes flickering behind his eyelids and hands twitching gently in his sleep.

Flash seemed alright… Maybe Miles could leave now. He was done with this. Missions complete, right?

Only he couldn't seem to pull his eyes away from the man's sleeping face. A few strands of blonde hair had fallen over his forehead and his eyebrows were furrowed together slightly- mind somewhere else, or maybe in a dream?

Miles shook his head out and checked the clock on Flash's bedside. It was 12.43am. He really needed to get back to school if he was even going to have a hope of getting up in time for class. Flash would be fine. He'd do just fine without Miles around. What more could the young boy do anyway? Did he want to add 'staring-at-you-whilst-you-slept' to the 'groping'?

No, he didn't. Still, it felt bad to leave without saying anything. He stepped away from the bed, hoping to maybe find some kind of pad-and-pen set amongst the mess that littered Flash's bedroom floor- maybe under an old shirt or something?

As he stepped further away, a hand suddenly reached out and grabbed onto him. Strong, thick fingers wrapped around his wrist but the tug pulling him back was gentle. The contrast struck Miles as something important, something rare. He turned back to Flash, the disabled man looking straight at Miles's mask.

It felt like he was looking through it, like he could see every feature on Miles's face. But then those sad blue eyes shut and Flash tugged again, "Don't go, Peter…" he slurred, breathless as he turned his head down to look at the floor. Maybe he was too drunk to keep it up, but Miles had the sick feeling in his stomach that it was actually because Flash was ashamed to look him in the eye now that he believed him to be Peter.

Miles didn't know what to do.

He stepped back toward the bed, gently prising Flash's hand from his wrist and pushing the large man to lie flat. "Go to sleep," he mumbled, licking his lips and trying to sound more like the Spiderman before him, the ghost Flash was imagining.

Flash mumbled something. The words got lost in his throat, in the drink, but the sound he made was clear enough. It was a lonely sound, like the wail a dog gives to the sky.

Miles felt like he'd seen something personal. Too personal. He should've left before this all happened. Flash was lying on the bed, his chest practically cracked open to let Miles see everything inside him. Miles felt like he was taking advantage without meaning to.

Like he was stealing.

Miles swallowed to try and force the uneasy feeling down, holding his breath and pushing the window open. It felt like he didn't breathe until he got home, perched against the wall by his dorm window. He reached up and pulled the mask off, tearing it away and letting the wind blow at his face. He gasped, feeling his lungs fill with the cold air, and clenching his eyes shut.

But when he opened them again all he could see were those pleading blue eyes begging for him to be real- to be Peter Parker.

How could he ever live up to expectation like that…?


End file.
